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  Sometime in the wee small hours of the morning, I shut off the computer, satisfied that the ending of Passion in Peru was exactly what I wanted. I could ship off the manuscript tomorrow to my agent in London and relax a bit before launching into the new Dorinda Darlington. I turned off the lamps in my office and moved over to the window to look out on the sleeping village.

  The moon shed a beguiling glow over the lane outside my window. Nothing moved. Ah, the peace of a quiet English village, I thought. I could make myself quite at home here, immersing myself in writing and taking part in village life as I chose.

  As I watched, something moved in the shadows cast by the trees along the lane. I focused my gaze, and as the thing moved closer, I could see that it was a person. Who on earth was out walking the village at this time of night?

  The figure paused for a moment at the gate of the house next to Jane Hardwick’s, then slipped inside. Fascinated, I continued to watch as whoever it was wandered through the garden and around the house, emerging back into view a couple of minutes later. Back out into the lane it came, then through the gate at Jane Hardwick’s. Once again, the same procedure—a circuit around the cottage. Puzzled, I wondered for a moment whether it was the village bobby making late-night rounds to ensure that all was well.

  Then the figure approached my own gate, and I could see, finally, who it was. What on earth was Abigail Winterton doing prowling through the village in the dead of night?

  CHAPTER THREE

  It took death to make me a morning person.

  That’s one of the many ironies of my existence as a vampire. When I was mortal, I hated worse than anything having to get up before at least ten A.M. Now that I need so little sleep to keep me bouncing along like that annoying bunny in the television commercials, I can get up quite happily at the crack of dawn. Those magic pills really do make a difference. Disgusting, isn’t it?

  I had a luxurious shower. Tristan’s cottage—now mine, I reminded myself—might look like something out of Jane Austen, but inside it was thoroughly modern. Ever the sybarite Tristan had made sure of that. The heat of the water on my skin refreshed me. I know you’re disappointed to find out that vampires do something as mundane as bathe, but we do sweat a little, after all.

  After drying off and dressing, I wandered about downstairs, waiting for the water to boil for my morning tea. While I waited, I turned on the computer and started printing out the final chapter of Passion in Peru. The post office opened at nine, and I wanted to be there when it opened to get the manuscript off my hands and into the Royal Mail.

  I sat and sipped my tea as the laser printer spit out page after page of my deathless prose. I think I am one writer who can use that adjective with some justification. Thanks to the speed of the printer, I had the pages I needed in less than twenty minutes. I bundled them together with the rest of the manuscript, quickly composed and printed a cover letter for my agent, then put it all in a box.

  Wrapping paper, I thought. Where is it? I glanced around the room, wondering which box held what I needed. Sorry to disappoint you yet again, but I have no X-ray vision. I had to open the boxes by hand and shuffle through the contents until I found what I needed. What I really needed, I decided, was someone to organize this mess. And preferably not me.

  Eventually, I had everything in order, and I was ready to head out the door a few minutes before nine. I stuck my head out the door. Clear and hot already. I retrieved my hat and my sunglasses from the hat stand in the hallway, clasped my parcel under my arm, and set out.

  Though I had, in theory, resided in Snupperton Mumsley for all of a month, I had, in practice, spent very little time here until the past few days. Upon arriving in England, I had spent much of my time in London, taking care of various matters. There is quite a bit of red tape involved for any American who wants to live in England, and though Snupperton Mumsley is located conveniently near a stop on the Thameslink line north of London, I figured it would be much simpler to hang around in London until everything was sorted out I had been given the cottage furnished, sight unseen, by Tristan Lovelace and had my books and other personal items shipped there. I had been down once to check that all my things had arrived, but the rest of the time I had been mostly in London, with the occasional short weekend visit to the cottage to start putting things in order. I do adore London, but by the time I got all the paperwork taken care of, I was ready to settle for a while amidst the pastoral pleasures of village life in Snupperton Mumsley.

  All of the foregoing being, of course, a rather long-winded explanation of why I had as yet not set foot in the village store-cum-post office.

  I paused at my gate. A warm, fragrant breeze eddied around me, carrying with it the myriad scents of an August morning in England. I sniffed deeply the heady smell of freshly mown hay from the farm down the lane from me. Memories of my childhood and youth in Mississippi tumbled in my head, triggered by that smell.

  I ambled down the lane—it was the main road through the village, actually, but it was such a minor thoroughfare, it was hard to find it on any map, and I didn’t worry much about being run over by a car or lorry. I strolled past Jane Hardwick’s cottage, past the church, and on into the “business” section of the village, enjoying the shade of all the trees along the way. When I walked up to the door of the post office, Abigail Winterton was just unlocking it.

  “Good morning, Dr. Kirby-Jones.” The greeting was grudging, offered in a sour tone that belied the adjective. No doubt lack of sleep, thanks to her late-night ramble, made her less than gracious this morning.

  “Good morning, Miss Winterton,” I responded with my most gratuitously American bonhomie. I even tipped my hat to her. “How are you this morning? It was so delightful to meet you yesterday at the vicarage! Living in this charming village is going to be such a thrill for me, you know. I’ve loved England for so many years, and here I am, living right in the middle of a lifelong dream. And you have such a delightful shop!”

  Babbling on, I poured it on so thick, my accent becoming ever-so-slightly more southern with each syllable, that I had her simpering with superiority before it was over. By the time I was done, she knew I was just another one of those potty Americans who wanted to be more English than the queen herself.

  I handed her my parcel to be weighed, then passed over money for the appropriate postage, and Abigail Winterton condescended to indulge my curiosity about the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society. “The society goes back over one hundred years, you know. It was originally founded by the late baronet’s great-grandfather”—how carefully she avoided mentioning the Blitherington name—“and we have had great success with our programs for many, many years.” She paused to size me up. “Are you interested in trying out for a part?” Her eyes gleamed for a moment, and I wondered what scheme she had in mind.

  “Sorry,” I replied, hanging my head in shame, “but I have absolutely no dramatic skills whatsoever. I’m afraid that what talent I have lies with the written word.” I am shameless, of course, but why not be? I’m so good at it.

  Miss Winterton frowned at that, considering. But then she brightened. “Well, we are always interested in new writing talent, of course. Have you written any plays, or considered writing one? After all, if a brainless wonder like Giles Blitherington can turn out one, surely a man of your education could do the same.” The spite in her tone amused me, and the expression of hatred on her face, fleeting though it was, was a wonder to behold. If I were Prunella Blitherington, I’d watch my back.

  Once again I had to express my regrets. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in writing plays for an amateur dramatic group, no matter how august they might be. And I certainly was going to reserve judgment on that!

  Abigail Winterton barely heard my regrets, however. “This year, fortunately, we won’t have to use some drivel written by an overgrown schoolboy.” For a moment, I thought she was referring to me, but then I realized that Giles Blitherington was her target. I was beginn
ing to have some sympathy for him.

  “Oh, yes,” I said politely. “You mentioned last evening that you knew of a suitable play.”

  Miss Winterton simpered. I don’t believe I had ever seen an adult female actually simper, but Miss Winterton could have given Shirley Temple lessons. “Why, yes, I do.” She laughed. Horses for miles around probably perked up their ears. “This play would be just the thing for our group. The village would never, ever, forget it!”

  She seemed privy to some source of mirth that escaped me completely. She rocked silently back and forth, gripping her sides in a most unladylike manner.

  “That bodes well for the Church Restoration Fund, I suppose,” I said. “Have I perchance met the author of this astonishing work of drama?” I even batted my eyelashes at her, but to no avail.

  She turned coy. “Now, that would be telling, you naughty man.” She was actually flirting with me. “I don’t believe I shall tell you, even though you asked so prettily. No, I do believe I shall share the good news with everyone tonight, at the meeting, when we’re all gathered together.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” I responded politely.

  “It will be a night Snupperton Mumsley might never forget,” she chortled.

  I decided to take a chance. “Yes, nights can be rather interesting here. I’m something of a night owl myself, you know, and one can observe the most interesting things just by peeking out the window in the dead of night.”

  Miss Winterton had been reaching for something under the counter, but she hesitated, glancing at me through a fringe of the unkempt hair hanging over her eyes.

  “Such a peaceful time to be taking a walk, don’t you think?” I continued.

  She straightened, watching me uncertainly.

  “One can see such interesting things, I suppose.”

  “I suppose,” she finally spoke, “if one were walking about at such a time of night, one might observe something out of the ordinary. A village like this has many little secrets just waiting to be discovered.” Her face took on a vulpine look, and I thought for a moment that she had forgotten me.

  “My goodness,” she finally said. “Where is my head this morning?! I’m sure you’d like to have your mail, now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Certainly. Thank you very much,” I said as she handed me a small bundle of letters.

  The door opened then with a jingle, preventing me from the further probing of Miss Winterton. The morning sun accompanied the woman who entered, wrapping her head in a halo that made her thick blond hair seem to glow. Then the door shut, and the sun receded, leaving me blinking. I pulled on my dark glasses, and the world came back into view.

  She wore one of those outfits that looks so simple, yet so elegant, that it probably cost as much as the advance on my first novel. She moved with an assured grace, confident that nothing and no one would stand in her way. Her face had a serene beauty that seemed out of character with what I had observed thus far of the inhabitants of Snupperton Mumsley. I thought she might be in her late thirties, but she could be a very well preserved fifty. What on earth was she doing here? I wondered.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Stevens,” Abigail Winterton cooed at her. “How are you this fine day?”

  Miss Winterton’s voice was so sweet I could tell that she was either terrified of the other woman or detested her. Or both.

  “Good morning, Miss Winterton. I am exceedingly well, thank you. And you?” Mrs. Stevens paused to give me a thorough going-over, paying no attention whatsoever to the state of Abigail Winterton’s health.

  Once the X ray was complete, Mrs. Stevens turned back to Abigail Winterton. “Won’t you introduce us, Miss Winterton?” The formality of the tone rebuked the postmistress for her breach of etiquette, and the poor woman flushed a terribly unbecoming shade of puce. At least it drew attention away from the unfortunate state of her hair. What on earth did she fix it with to get it to look like that? An eggbeater?

  “Forgive me,” Miss Winterton stuttered. “I don’t know where my manners are this morning.” Ah, I thought, but I do know where you’d like to put your knife.

  “Mrs. Stevens, may I introduce Dr. Simon Kirby- Jones? Dr. Kirby-Jones, Mrs. Samantha Stevens. Dr. Kirby-Jones has just moved here from America.” As I took the proffered hand, I restrained myself from asking where Darrin might be or whether Endora might pop in any moment I doubted either one of them would have known what I meant anyway.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Stevens,” I said, clasping her hand. She inclined her head, coolly. She had already cataloged me as attractive but unavailable, and her interest was merely intellectual, no longer hormonal.

  “Welcome to Snupperton Mumsley, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she said. “What may I ask, brings an American to such a backwater as this?”

  I was a bit surprised that she would ask such a question directly. I had thought finesse would be one of her strong suits, but perhaps she was in a hurry.

  “I’m a historian and a biographer with a lifelong interest in English history, and when the chance came to live in England, I simply couldn’t resist.” I smiled my most charming smile and was rewarded with a brief twitch of the lips.

  “Then you must be, of course, the person who has bought Tristan Lovelace’s cottage.” The slight emphasis on Tris’s name said it all. Suspicions confirmed, it said. Might make an entertaining dinner companion or decorating consultant but little else.

  She was definitely built to be a man-killer. You might say it takes one to know one, if you’ll pardon the feeble (and mostly inaccurate) joke. Again, I wondered what she was doing in this little village, but I restrained my curiosity—for the moment.

  “And how is dear Mr. Stevens?” Abigail Winterton purred. “All recovered from that nasty accident he had while you were on holiday last week?”

  I looked at Samantha Stevens with renewed interest. By the tone of Abigail Winterton’s voice, I was convinced that Mrs. Stevens had somehow contrived her husband’s accident. A merry widow in the making, perhaps?

  “He’s recovering quite nicely, thank you, Miss Winterton. The poor dear”—she turned again to me—“simply cannot be convinced that he’s a little past the age to do certain things. You know how men are.” Her gaze challenged me.

  “Yes, I know just what you mean,” I responded.

  Abigail Winterton hadn’t quite got it all figured out yet. Someone would have to take her aside and explain rather carefully that I was one of those nasty poofters her parents had whispered about. The poor dear seemed a bit slow on the uptake on certain matters.

  “Well, I’m so delighted,” Miss Winterton continued, blithely, “that Mr. Stevens is doing so well. After all, he has so many obligations, doesn’t he? I mean, he is so busy with all his investments. One wouldn’t like to think he was losing any of his own money.” Whatever could she mean by that? I wondered.

  She rattled on. “We’ve all been so happy that a man so eminent in the City should choose Snupperton Mumsley for his retirement. I do hope, though,” she added maliciously, “that no little accidents deprive us of him anytime soon. What a shame it would be if something happened to him before he could see to his various responsibilities.”

  I was a bit taken aback by that one, but Samantha Stevens didn’t twitch so much as a nostril. “It behooves us all,” she said, “to be very, very careful, doesn’t it?” She stared straight at Miss Winterton, who paled a bit and took a step back from the counter. Wish I could have seen Samantha Stevens’s face just then.

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Winterton mumbled. “Quite right, quite right.”

  I thought it a good time to make my exit Then, if either one of them was so inclined, she could commit homicide without yours truly as a witness.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stevens,” I said, bowing slightly in her direction. “Miss Winterton, I believe I’ll see you again this evening at the meeting.”

  Abigail Winterton tittered. “Of course, Dr. Kirby-Jones, and Mrs. Stevens a
s well. Didn’t you know, she’s a member of the board of SMADS?”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I responded faintly. I could imagine the combination of Winterton, Stevens, and Blitherington. Tonight would be fun—or a bloodbath. “I’ll see you this evening, then.” Clutching my mail, I walked briskly out of the post office.

  And literally right into a very attractive man.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Please forgive me!” I said, dropping everything as I reached out a steadying arm to my unwitting target. I had cannoned right into him, not paying the least attention to what—or who—might be on the other side of the post office door. I bent quickly to retrieve my mail from the pavement.

  “It’s quite all right,” he assured me, looking up into my eyes and smiling. He stood several inches shorter than my own lanky six feet three. His chestnut hair and neatly trimmed beard, highlighted with gray, framed a strong face, and dark blue eyes sparkled at me. Closer to forty than thirty, I reckoned. He stepped back. “I don’t believe we’ve met but I’m Trevor Chase. I own the bookshop here in the village.”

  “I do beg your pardon once again.” I smiled. “I’m Simon Kirby-Jones, and I’ve just moved here. I promise you that I don’t run over people deliberately.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” He returned my smile. “I was on my way to my shop. I don’t open the doors to the public until ten, but I’d be delighted if you’d consider having a cup of tea with me.”

  At the very least, I told myself as I stood admiring his lithely muscled body. He was built like a teddy bear, but a teddy bear who could mow down a defensive line if need be. Just my type. “I’d like that very much, thank you.” I grinned back at him, not quite baring the fangs but nevertheless giving the impression—so I hoped—that he looked good enough to nibble on.